She promised me Frank would be returned to me.
Two weeks later, a package arrived at my door.
Inside was a pale-blue ceramic urn.
Blue had always been Frank’s favorite color.
I sat on the living-room floor, held the urn against my chest, and cried until my throat burned.
Years earlier, Frank and I had made a promise.
Whichever of us died first would have their ashes scattered beneath the willow tree beside the lake where we had first met.
It took me another month before I could make myself go.
I chose a quiet morning when I knew no one else would likely be there.
I sat beneath the willow branches with the urn resting in my lap.
“I hate you for going first,” I told him.
Then, despite myself, I laughed.
“You always were selfish.”
I began telling him about everything he had missed: the kitchen faucet that had started leaking, our neighbor’s new dog, and the ridiculous fact that I still expected to hear his key turning in the front door at six every evening.
